


like a cat in a bag

by thememoriesfire



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Karyn, who wanted Quinn and Santana to join the golf team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a cat in a bag

The pills become habitual quicker than she imagines.

Talking about her life, however—well, that’s a whole ‘nother ballgame.  After 16 years of keeping everything inside, she spends the first five weeks of therapy aimlessly talking about college applications and how the weather is sweltering.  Her therapist, a large-nosed woman named Alicia, allows her to keep up the pretense that she’s just around to socialize at her mother’s request, and by the sixth week, she finally says something that matters.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Alicia smiles and says, “I don’t think anyone truly knows who they are at your age, Quinn.”

Alicia clearly has never met Rachel Berry, and when Santana pulls up outside of the hospital later that morning, leaning over to open up the passenger door, Quinn slides in and says, “This isn’t working.”

“What, therapy?” Santana asks, fiddling with the radio until they hit upon Lima’s only hip hop station; the car almost bounces with the bass, and it’s not the time or the place for a serious conversation.

Quinn stares out the window at the office buildings across the road and wonders if she’ll ever be happy working in one of them; it seems inevitable, even though she knows objectively that there’s nothing stopping her from getting out.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asks, instead.  At Santana’s questioning look, she adds, “Cheerleading.  Or… how things were, back when that’s who we were?”

Santana’s face clouds over darkly for a moment, but then she just shrugs and says, “Things weren’t okay then, either, Q.  We were just better at pretending.”

They drive around Lima for the rest of the day without talking.  It feels a lot like friendship, even though some part of Quinn suspects that real friends _talk_  to each other about the things that are wrong in their lives, and she’ll never bring up Brittany any more than Santana will bring up Beth.

*

The summer vacation stretches out long and hard, and by the end of the summer there are three empty pill bottles on her vanity, reminding her of the things that are keeping her together.

On the last day, Santana shows up unexpectedly and says, “I have a crazy proposition.”

“I’m not cutting my hair even shorter,” Quinn says, without looking up from the battered copy of  _The Great Gatsby_  she’s re-reading just because there isn’t anything better to do.

When Santana doesn’t say anything else, Quinn finally looks up, and then blinks.

“They’ve… I’ve been recruited.  I don’t even know, okay, I haven’t worn plaid in my  _life_ , but somehow they just knew,” Santana says, awkwardly, putting the putter down on the ground and leaning on it like it’s a cane.  “Anyway, the thing is—my dad is a member of the local club, and—”

Quinn sits up a little bit more when Santana pauses, looks at the club, and then looks back at Quinn.

“Sometimes it just feels really fucking good to hit the  _shit_  out of something without there being any real consequences, you know?” she finally says, in a quiet voice that Quinn has never heard on her.

She’s not the only one who should be in therapy, but Alicia can only do so much for her until she learns how to start opening up, and in the mean time—

(She remembers slugging Rachel in that bathroom; dreams about it sometimes, actually, and in her dreams it always goes much further than that—her hands around Rachel’s throat until Rachel’s lips whiten and her eyes bulge, and it’s such a logical fallacy.  Nothing in her life would actually be better with Rachel gone; she hasn’t seen her in almost three months, and doesn’t even really  _care_  about Finn, so maybe there’s a much bigger something to be dealing with here.

Like: how hitting people in bathrooms?  That can  _never_  happen again.)

“You want to go play golf,” she says, watching as Santana’s eyes flit back and forth between her book and the golf club.

“You miss the Cheerios.  The golf team is like—fuck, Quinn, it’s so sad that you and I could own that shit within ten minutes of signing up.  And it’s exercise, and—”

Santana’s lips twist, until finally she sighs and says, “Do we really have anywhere  _lower_  left to go?”

Tomorrow, school starts again, and Brittany will be there—friends with everyone, including Santana, talking about the future and family and how really the Glee club is the best thing that’s ever happened to any of them.

Tomorrow, Rachel will be on top.

She closes the book slowly and sticks out a hand for the golf club.  When Santana passes it over mutely, Quinn grips it tightly.  The grip’s leathery, but when her hand slides down, the rest of it is metal, and the solidity of the thing somehow makes this the easiest decision she’s had to take in the past year.

“We’re going to take a lot of heat for this,” she says, twisting her wrist until the putter’s standing up almost straight in the air.

“We’re going to take a lot of heat anyway,” Santana says, with a small, wry smile.  “And you have the hair for it now.  Golf, I mean.”

“Whose fault is that?” Quinn asks, tossing the club back to Santana, who catches it one-handedly.

“It was a stupid idea,” Santana says, already heading out the door again, but Quinn calls out her name and waits for her to look over her shoulder.

“When are try-outs?”

Santana smiles the first genuine smile she’s seen since they took Regionals last year, and says, “I’ll let you know.”

*

If they’re going to do this, they’re going to have to go all out.

The golf team, much like the Cheerios, think of what they do as kind of a lifestyle, but voluntarily.  The coach is the Home Ec teacher, Mrs. Swanson, and she mostly just talks to them about technique without getting all weirdly invasive about life lessons and whatever.  It’s a nice change of pace from Mr. Schue, who wouldn’t know how to stop being invasive if someone gave him a roadmap.

They go shopping immediately after try-outs, which went soaringly well; Quinn’s kept her arms up despite not having had to balance on them for months now, and her first attempt to hit the ball had it sailing over the school gate and into the parking lot.  Santana laughed and says, “Easy there, Rambo” even as Mrs. Swanson said something about how she needs to rotate her hips more but shows a lot of potential.

Nobody’s commented on her potential in ages now, and so they pile into Santana’s car after classes and head out to the local sports store.

Twenty minutes later, she owns a collection of vests, three pairs of white pants, a glove that Santana slaps at her ass with a grin, and her first  _own_ golf club.

It’s a nine iron, and when she buys a set of balls to go with it, she names every single one of them Finn Hudson in her mind, because Santana has a point.

*

Puck laughs his head off when he sees them the next day.

“Dudes—is this some sort of roleplaying exercise?” he asks.

Santana glares at him from under her beret.  “Do you have a problem?”

“No, you just look like complete dorks,” he says, easily enough, before glancing at Quinn again, who is leaning against the locker next to Santana’s, trying not to pull on the vest she’s wearing.  She feels like… well, a classier version of Mr. Schue.  But she also feels weirdly like she’s finally doing something for  _herself_.  “You’re going to need an armed guard to not be Slushied wearing that shit, man.”

Santana just levels him with a dismissive look before closing her locker and heading off to AP English.  Quinn smiles at him a moment later and says, “We’re quitting Glee.  You have two new members, don’t you?”

He looks completely baffled, and in her mind she’s already rotating her torso and picturing a ball flying way the hell away from Lima, Ohio.

The pills go down a lot easier at lunchtime than they ever have before.

*

Golf is isolating.  She’s in it  _with_  Santana, but even though it’s a team sport, it’s really all about individual accomplishment.

She can deal with that; she’s a Fabray, after all, but Santana’s mostly been about doing things in pairs, and so to keep the comfort levels to a tolerable setting, they practice together a lot, out on the driving range at the rotary club.

She runs into her father after two weeks, and he stares at her from three spaces down like he’s looking at a total stranger—like he doesn’t even _recognize_  her anymore.

Maybe he doesn’t.  She looks less and less like his little girl, and more and more like—

Santana’s arm slides around her lower back, and she says, “Ignore him.  He doesn’t fucking deserve your attention, Q.”

She looks to the side and then out onto the driving range, at where their balls are all neatly stacked together, where they bounced off the back fence and rolled back in bounds.

“I know,” she says, and reaches down into the bucket for another ball.

This one, she calls Daddy, and the club almost flies out of her hand with how hard she hits it.

Santana gives her a knowing look and says, “How about we go and hit up the sauna?”

“Yeah,” Quinn sighs, and doesn’t look over her shoulder again.

*

They’ve seen each other in all states of undress, but Quinn’s never found that easy to handle; and even now, it’s a bit much, Santana in a towel that’s almost slipping off her, eyes closed and not saying anything.

They fill most of the spaces between them with silence, but she’s claustrophobic and this isn’t the time and the place to be taking up that much space  _without_  sound.

“Shelby’s invited me to go see her,” she says, softly.

Santana doesn’t react one way or the other, but waits for her to keep going.  Beads of sweat are forming on her forehead, and she wipes at them impatiently.

“I’m… thinking about it.  I don’t want Puck to know, though, but I’m also not sure I can…”

Santana blinks one eye open and smiles faintly.  “I’ve been driving your poor ass all around town all summer anyway; might as well drive you out of town as well.”

“They’re in Akron, Santana, it’s—”

“It’s  _fine,_ ” Santana says, reaching over with a surprisingly cool hand to grab Quinn’s knee.  She tries not to jolt at the feeling, but it’s …

Nobody’s touched her in months, and she can’t help the small shudder that Santana’s casual,  _friendly_  gesture produces.

“I need a break anyway.  Britt’s been calling,” Santana says, like that’s a casual thing to throw out there.  “Wants to be besties again.  And, well, sorry.  But that time has come and gone.  I need to—”

“She’ll always be your best friend,” Quinn says, pointlessly.

Santana shifts and looks at her.  “Friendships change.”

The hand doesn’t leave her knee, and after about five more minutes, actually starts to feel comfortable there.

Quinn doesn’t think about it too much, and just takes another pill as soon as they’re having a late lunch; Santana watches her swallow it without commenting, and then says, “We should try the course this weekend; tap some actual holes.”

Quinn nearly chokes on her water and says, “That’s more  _your_ hobby than mine.”

Santana laughs.  “Not  _that_  into that, eh?”

“I meant—”  Quinn says, feeling flustered for no real reason; except that maybe it’s too warm for the polo shirt she’s wearing, and Santana’s looking at her in the way that Santana has only ever looked at guys who are going to buy her drinks, or Brittany.

“I know what you meant, princess,” Santana says, easily, before sighing and poking at her salad.  “Who the fuck else am I supposed to mess with, now?”

“Right, well,” Quinn says, after a long moment.  “The minimum we can do is tap  _nine_ holes, and unless you are going to be particularly gross or really weird, I think the analogy fails there.”

Santana starts laughing after a moment, spontaneous and unrestrained, and Quinn rolls her eyes a little before pelting a bit of bread at her.

“Where’d you get so funny; nun school?” Santana asks, stabbing a few more pieces of rocket with her fork and crunching on them loudly.

“Maybe I’m a little tired of being unfunny,” Quinn says, because the pill’s kicking in nicely and it’s a warm, sunny Friday afternoon.

*

Nobody understands what they’re doing, and of course Rachel is the first person to come calling for an explanation.

“The club needs you,” she says, hovering next to Quinn in the girls’ bathroom on second.

Quinn glances at her for a second and then says, “The club needs Santana, maybe.  I’m not a particularly gifted singer, and I never gave enough of a shit to try hard for Glee.  You reminded me of that often enough.”

Rachel blinks, like that’s somehow the worst thing Quinn could’ve said, and then reaches out with a concerned hand.  “I just want to know if you’re okay.  Is that—”

Quinn jerks away before that hand can make contact, and glares at her hard.  “What do you want from me, Rachel?  You ended up with everything you wanted; me out of your hair, Finn on your hand, and a Glee club that finally respects you for your talent.  Why isn’t that just  _enough_  for you?”

Rachel takes an uncertain step backwards, and then Santana saunters in, beret and all, looking between them two of them.  She steps in front of Quinn without hesitation and just raises an eyebrow at Rachel, who sighs and heads back out again.

“The fuck was that about?” she asks, when Quinn exhales slowly and goes back to fixing her make-up and her hair.  (It needs a lot more fixing now that they spend so much time outside, and now that it’s so short and messy.)

“Rachel wants to be my friend,” Quinn says, brittle and annoyed all at once.

“Rachel is fucking  _loca,_ ” Santana says, before stepping into Quinn’s space and reaching for her hair without asking for permission.  “And you look like something out of Pokemon, girl.  I’m all about your sassy lesbian hair but come  _on_.  This isn’t bedhead, it’s like Armageddon-head.”

Quinn doesn’t even really know why she tolerates Santana messing with her hair for a good five minutes, but when she looks back into the mirror, her hair is halfway in her eyes and—

“There.  I’d fuck you,”  Santana says, teasingly, right in her hair.

“Not  _that_  into that,” Quinn reminds her, barely able to hide a smile, but even with all that banter, there’s a strange look in Santana’s eyes that it’s probably best for her to not think about too hard.

*

She’s not homophobic; she’s on the  _golf team_ , and two of her only friends are so gay that on an x-ray they’d probably just show up as rainbows.

She’s just also—

The only time this has come up was at ninth grade cheer camp, when she’d walked in on Brittany and Santana rounding second base underneath some clothes, and Brittany had just said, “Oh, hey, come here” and pulled her into their little group hug.

She’d kissed Brittany then, but not Santana, because to Brittany this was little more than a simple way to express some mutual affection; but to Santana?

It doesn’t surprise her that three years down the line, Brittany is  _still_ in love with everyone, and Santana is still darkly watching her do it.  Except just like on that afternoon, Santana’s eyes are also on  _her_ , and—

She’s not homophobic.  She’s just also not  _gay_ , no matter how many polo shirts she owns, or how weirdly excited she’d been when she and her mom drove past a Ralph Lauren outlet on the way back from a visit to her sister in Columbus.

Clothing can’t do that to you.  And kissing Brittany just hadn’t been… 

(It’s three am and she wishes she hadn’t stopped taking her medication, just because she really needs to get some sleep before Santana comes to pick her up for a really ill-advised trip to Akron.)

*

They listen to the Dixie Chicks on the drive over as a compromise; Santana loves their covers, and Quinn just likes the sublte melancholy of country.

She doesn’t even notice that Santana’s stopped listening to her until suddenly, it’s just her own voice—feeble, weak, not  _good enough_ —ringing through the car, and then she stops abruptly.

“No, don’t,” Santana says, giving her a brief look.  Her voice sounds weirdly condensed, like she’s only letting a small part of it filter out.  “You sounded good.”

“I’m not a great singer,” Quinn says, looking down at her lap and the address that she’s crumpling there.

“I’m not Rachel, okay, and you were feeling that song.  Just—keep going,” Santana says.

Her hand slides across the console a moment later, and forces Quinn to stop abusing their only roadsign to Beth.

It stays there the rest of the drive, and Quinn sings softly while looking out the window, because it’s easier than challenging what’s happening.

*

It’s not her daughter.

She can’t really think much else than that when her chest constricts at the sight of Beth, who is two and crawling and making noises and—otherwise _nothing_  to her.

Santana, with her three brothers and endless babysitting experience, cottons to the baby like a butterfly to a bright light; picks her up and murmurs to her in Spanish, and holds her in the air and makes her fly like an airplane.

Nobody at McKinley would believe this if she told them, and she’s taking a picture of it before she even knows that that’s what she’s going to do.

“Your turn,” Santana says, blinking after the flash blinds her temporarily.

Quinn hesitates, looking at Shelby, and then at Santana, and finally shakes her head.  “This is enough.  She looks—happy.”

She’s never doing this again, but she has that one shot of her best friend with a beautiful little girl who will grow up to do amazing things, and it’s more than enough.

*

“I’m not driving back,” Santana says, when they’re back outside and in the car.

“We can get a motel,” Quinn notes.  “Or—try to find the local club and—”

“You’re a golf addict,” Santana says, with a small smile.

“It’s cathartic.  That wasn’t my discovery,” Quinn says, a little pointedly.

Santana takes out her iPhone and starts looking, and then calls her dad and asks him if he’s willing to comp for them.  Dr. Lopez is nothing if not financially accommodating to make up for his work hours, and ten minutes later they’re looping around the city and on their way to a different green.

“Was this a good move or not?” Santana asks.

Quinn doesn’t know how to answer the question, and finally just says, “I’m glad you came.”

*

They always have a spare bag of clubs in the back of Santana’s trunk these days, and today, Quinn calls all the balls ‘goodbye’.

*

A roadside motel just out of town ends up being their place to crash for the night, and Santana heads out to the nearest by White Castle to pick them up an excessive amount of protein.  (Their diets, on the golf team, are almost the opposite of what they had been on the Cheerios, and if not for the fact that they literally walk  _everywhere_  while playing, Quinn would actually be worried about her weight.)

She lies down on the bed and looks at the picture she took one more time; wonders what it means that she’s convinced that Santana Lopez, resident hard-ass and part-time bully, would make a much better mother than she ever will.

Wonders what it means that she would’ve never taken this picture if Puck had come with her, or Finn, or anyone else.

The door opens again before she can think of something clever to say, and Santana mumbles something around the edges of a paper bag that she’s holding onto with her teeth; Quinn laughs and takes it from her, before also grabbing their drinks, and then they’re just  _right there,_ junk food on the table by the door and Santana running a hand through her hair and mumbling something about stupid frat boys jumping the line and—

“I’m not gay,” Quinn says, without thinking.

Santana blinks at her and says, “Yeah, no shit.”

“But—” Quinn says, wondering when it became so hard to form words; sixteen years of practice and all.

Santana says, “Not  _that_  into that?  So—a little into that?”

“Not with her,” Quinn says, and they both know who she means, so there’s nothing else to add to that.

Santana trails a hand up Quinn’s cheek, flicking that strand of hair that’s always in her eyes out of the way, until she can look straight at her.

“You’re my only real friend, Fabray, so if you’re just feeling emotional because we just saw your kid, this is a really fucking dumb move and I’m not participating in it.”

Quinn bites her lip, right by Santana’s hand, and then shakes her head, laughing brokenly.  “I joined the  _golf team_  for you.”

“You did that for yourself.”

“ _With_  you, then,” she says, and takes another small step forward, until she’s almost backing Santana into the door.  “You know how many things I’ve done  _with_ other people in my life?”

Santana says nothing, but stares back at her with a fierce expression on her face.

“This isn’t a mistake,” Quinn says, softly, when there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.

“Of course it is,” Santana replies, and the eye-roll is implicit in what she’s saying.  “I’m  _gay_ , Quinn.  You’re just sad, and lonely, and maybe a little confused, but—”

“I’m going to ask to be taken off the pills, because you and golf are making me happier than they are,” Quinn says.  “So—maybe I am a little confused, and I know I’m lonely and sad, but this isn’t about that.”

It’s blunt, and it’s truthful, and Santana finally just sighs and says, “What happens in Akron, stays in Akron, huh.”

“I really hope not,” Quinn says, and waits, because she just  _can’t_  do this first.

They look at each other for a long moment, and then Santana relaxes; weirdly, that small change in her body language makes Quinn flush with tension all over again, but in a different way now.

Santana’s lips flash into a sharp smile, and then she says, “So, I guess I’m about to find out how it is you managed to keep three boyfriends almost castrated without ever even slipping a little nip.”

“God, why do you have to be so  _vulgar?_ ” Quinn says, laughing, and then Santana’s hands drop to her waist and pull her in just a little bit closer, until they’re nose to nose.

“Because  _two_  abstinent, prude golf team members are just never going to be a recipe for anything sexy, Q,” she whispers, and that’s even  _more_ wrong, and kind of offensive, but then Santana tilts her head just enough for their lips to press together, and Quinn loses interest in protesting.

It’s a slow kiss, just lips sliding past each other for a long moment, until Santana’s tongue flickers out and brushes past Quinn’s lower lip, and then Quinn loses a little bit of that control that she’s always wanted, and that she needs to be good at school, and golf, and being a Fabray; just enough to push Santana up against the wall and kiss her deeper.

She rates the kiss without meaning to, and it’s up there with her best kisses to date; and God, she’s kissed a lot of people, but nobody other than Puck has ever just splayed hands across her back and taken from her.

Nobody else has been given that kind of permission, but when Santana makes a small, pleased noise and their tongues brush together for the first time, Quinn realizes that Santana will never ask, and will never  _need_  to ask.

They pull apart with a wet pop, and Santana’s chest rises rapidly a few times, until she grins and says, “Not bad.”

“Not  _bad_?”

“Hey, I know you.  You’ve got to have perfection to strive for or you lose interest,” Santana says, and then casually reaches for their dinner, pulling a burger out of the bag and giving it to Quinn.  “Let’s eat.”

It’s a reprieve.  She’s not going to be grateful for it, exactly, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t appreciate it.

*

They watch  _The Wedding Singer_  on cable that night without even really touching, and Quinn thinks about her handicap and what her father would say about this particular development.

“I don’t really do relationships,” Santana says, right when the credits start rolling.  “You know that, right?”

“I don’t really do  _girls_ ,” Quinn responds, without rolling over to face her.  “You know  _that_ , right?”

“This is like eighteen fucking degrees of Thelma and Louise.  Just so we’re clear, I’m also not driving off a cliff with you,” Santana mumbles.

Quinn laughs softly and says, “Do we have to call it  _anything?_ ”

Santana’s arm slides around her waist a moment later in response, and Quinn sleeps without dreaming for the first time in about a year.

*

Alicia notes a change in her when she comes in and says, “I don’t know how to keep living up to other people’s expectations”, before she’s even sat down.

“Who says you have to?” Alicia says, neutrally.

Quinn sighs, stares at her, and then finally says, “So my best friend’s a lesbian, and I’m really into kissing her.”

“Cool,” Alicia says.

“ _Cool?_ ” Quinn responds.

“I’m not going to tell you that it’s wrong, if that’s what you want,” Alicia says.

Quinn glares at her and says, “Of course it’s not wrong.”

“For  _her_ , you mean.”

Quinn bristles.  “No, I just mean it’s not  _wrong_.  It just also doesn’t mean that I’m… also like that.”

“Why not?” Alicia asks.

Quinn rolls her eyes and says, “I’ve had  _the worst_  two years of my life.  I’m taking more anti-depressants than the average coked out mid-40s housewife, I have a  _child_  that isn’t mine anymore, and my entire family has fallen apart around me.  And now you want to talk me into having some sort of crisis about my sexuality?”

Alicia smiles and says, “Well, since you bring it up—is this a crisis?”

Quinn feels her head snap back up to look across the coffee table, but Alicia isn’t mocking her, and seems to just genuinely be waiting for a response.

It’s not until her phone vibrates, and she knows it’s Santana bragging about bagging a birdie or something on the 11th hole—Quinn’s nemesis, at the moment—that she feels a small smile come on.  It’s small, but it’s there.

“No.  I guess it’s not really.”

Alicia says, “Good.  So can we maybe talk about the stuff that  _is_  messing with your head, now?”

Grudgingly, she does.  (It all sort of flows out of her like a waterfall anyway, and twenty minutes later she’s crying loudly and God, she’s going to look a mess when Santana comes to get her, but—)

*

“You okay?” Santana asks, raising both eyebrows.

“I know I look like shit,” Quinn says, wiping past her eyes again.

“No, I just meant—you look… like you’re getting better,” Santana says, softly.

Quinn sighs and says, “I don’t want to talk about it.  Can we just—”

Santana releases her seatbelt immediately and pulls out some Cheerios-level contortion skills to drape herself over the console and reach for Quinn’s chin.  “You don’t have to ask, come on.”

Quinn kisses her  _first_ , this time, because it feels important, and when she moans unexpectedly at the feel of Santana’s nails scratching at her neck, Santana pulls back and smiles faintly.

“And how into  _that_ are we today, Ms. Fabray?”

Quinn laughs breathlessly and feels some more tears come on, but then just says, “We’re pretty into that, thanks, but—kicking your ass this afternoon on the 14th is still going to feel better.”

“Oh, the things I’ll show you; you won’t even remember how many holes there are in that game, girlfriend,” Santana says, waggling her eyebrows to take the pressure off.

Quinn laughs again, and then stills when Santana wipes away some of her tears and says, “So—I talked to Brittany.”

“About?”

“How… I’m moving on.  And maybe we can hang, someday.   _Hang_ ,” she repeats, forcefully, even though Quinn’s not reacted in the slightest.  “Because—that other stuff, that’s never going to happen again.”

“I know, Santana, you don’t have to—”

“And I thought I should be clear on this; you’re not just the next her, okay?  You’re…”  Santana frowns and then sighs and shrugs all at once.  “You’re something different altogether.  I don’t know what to call it.”

“That’s a good enough definition for me,” Quinn says, and pulls her back in for another kiss; short and sweet this time, sealing their unnamed deal.

*

At school, they’re inseparable.

Sure, it’s mostly because since they’ve quit Glee, all they have left is each other, but it’s not really about that.  There’s just nobody else they’d let in, at this point, and that’s perfectly fine from where Quinn’s sitting.  

Santana stops flinching every time Brittany walks by with either Artie or some other guy (or girl, because sometimes she’s all up in Tina’s space and Tina looks like she wants to hide in a bathroom or something) and Quinn starts rolling her eyes at Rachel and Finn, holding hands like pre-schoolers.

Fairytale romance has never really been her ambition anyway, and maybe this thing they have—no name, no designated stops along the way, and no clear end point—is exactly the kind of uncomplicated, solid  _something_  that she’s needed all these years.

Santana steals her grapes from her packed lunch without asking, and then dabs at some mayo on the corner of her mouth with her thumb, before saying, “Plus five; what the fuck were you doing out there this morning?”

“Staring at your ass,” Quinn says, unthinkingly, and then starts laughing when Santana blushes unexpectedly.  “Well, I was  _kidding_ , but maybe I should start.”

“If that’s the only way you can beat me, Q, maybe golf isn’t your sport after all,” Santana says, with a small glare.

If they were the kind of people to start making out in public, now would be a pretty good time, but instead Quinn just runs her nails along Santana’s neatly-pressed slacks and says, “Don’t be ridiculous.  Golf fits me like a glove.”

Santana rolls her eyes at what admittedly is a pretty damn lame joke, but Quinn knows her message was received loud and clear when the light pressure of Santana’s hand appears at the small of her back—holding her in place, and pushing her forward.

  




End file.
